


Without His Blogger

by shinodabear



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-11
Updated: 2011-03-11
Packaged: 2017-10-16 21:02:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/169321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinodabear/pseuds/shinodabear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A counterfactual historical piece looking at the events of the series if John had died in Afghanistan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Without His Blogger

In the Afghan desert, a soldier is shot by enemy fire. The bullet penetrates the soldier’s shoulder cleanly, severing bones and a vital artery. Another solider is shot down, trying to aid the first. They fall into enemy hands and are sent back in boxes, their corpses nearly complete. There are two closed-casket funerals for Captain John Watson, assistant surgeon to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers and Captain Murray, an orderly from the same regiment. The news doesn’t make the papers, but still their families grieve.

 

I.

Sherlock hates having Mycroft pay his rent, but he won’t ask him to stop. The flat at 221B Baker Street is the most suitable habitat he’s found yet. The landlady, one Mrs. Hudson, is a former client, a sweet old woman who will tidy up and make Sherlock sandwiches and tea while discussing the latest gossip in the papers. Her only fault is that she constantly tries to take his skull. The pros outweigh the cons. He remains in the flat.

He spends his time in one of the labs at St. Bart’s, occasionally exchanging pleasantries with Mike Stamford. He’s a good enough man, if a bit disaffected and lazy. Molly Hooper keeps trying to build up the courage to ask him out on a date. Why do people have to make things out to be complicated? Especially when things are so simple.

He keeps texting Lestrade, but the inspector keeps ignoring him. He’s wrong, and he knows it. He’s too proud to come to Sherlock. He won’t, not yet. There needs to be another murder.

Eventually, there is. Brixton. Lauringston Gardens. Female. Serial adulterer. Came from Cardiff. RACHE, most likely to be Rachel. Who is Rachel? Significant? Lestrade is on it. Sherlock looks for the important detail: the case. Find the case, they’ll find the murderer.

Sherlock finds the case that night. There is no phone, but there is a number. Sherlock texts the murderer (there’s a chance he’ll recognize the number – it’s on the site, after all – but that’s a risk he’ll have to take.) and sits in wait. There is a cab, but the occupant is American, just in from LAX; he can’t be the murderer. Sherlock is back to square one.

Unfortunately, Anderson is trying to pin the murders on him. Sherlock should have hidden the case. He knows they won’t find the drugs.

They won’t let him think, which is what he needs to do to solve the case. Anderson is being an ass. Lestrade is shouting. Sally is disrupting his experiments. Mrs. Hudson keeps talking about a cab that he did not order and –

A cab. _Of course_. A cab.

Sherlock gets a text. He goes.

The murders are a simply game of chance, fifty-fifty odds. It’s not chess. The cabbie is wrong. Dead wrong. But the aneurysm makes him dangerous. It releases him from his fear of death. The victims, they’re frightened for their lives, they can’t think (not that they could match Sherlock’ intellect even at their most competent.) Sherlock isn’t frightened. He’s slightly impressed, but disappointed that the cabbie had help. Who? A name, more than a man, he says. Sherlock files away the information for later. Lestrade should look into it.

Sherlock knows he can beat the cabbie at his own game. He takes his time, stalls to make absolutely certain that he is right, and, in the end, they take their medicine.

Sherlock wins, as he knew he would. He lives, and he also gets a name. “Moriarty.”

He ponders the name over a dinner of cold sandwiches Mrs. Hudson left for him on the table. It means nothing to him. Not yet.

II.

Sherlock doesn’t like DI Dimmock. The feeling is mutual. (With time, though, with time, Sherlock can win him over. It’s such a hassle to not have an inspector on his good side.) His dislike for Sebastian, however, is irrecoverable. He’s certain there is something within this case that can bring them both down.

He connects the murder victims to a shop in Chinatown. They were obviously running an illegal operation, but for what purpose? The cipher is broken, at least, discovered. A system of numbers. But what is the base for the code? The woman in the abandoned apartment next to the Lucky Cat, Soo Lin, was obviously involved or there wouldn’t have been an attack on her home. Once Sherlock shakes the assailant, he traces Soo Lin back to the museum where she nearly solves the entire case for him. A crime syndicate, the Black Lotus Tong, concerned with trading goods and selling them at a high price. She doesn’t have enough time to decipher the code found in the railway wall, however. She is killed by the same man who killed Van Coon and Lukis.

After identifying Van Coon and Lukis as members of the Black Lotus Tong, Sherlock sets to working out the cipher. It takes him a while, too long, but he discovers that Soo Lin had already begun to decipher the code. It was only a few words, but it’s a start. All members would be using the same reference, so Van Coon and Lukis would both have access to the source material. What is that source material? Books. Which book? It could be any book. It takes him all night to shift through both men’s libraries (with the help of Mrs Hudson) and he comes up empty-handed. It has to be somewhere, but where? Something readily available, something inconspicuous, something any Londoner would have. He has to think, but he can’t!

He grabs his coat and makes for the streets. He needs fresh air. He needs to think. But he can’t think because bloody German tourists are –

holding a book that book that is as common in London as pigeons. Something any Londoner would own, something inconspicuous. With a cry of delight, Sherlock breaks the code. He sends Dimmock and the team over to the meeting place named in the cipher and the gang is caught.

Dimmock is won over. The next morning, Sherlock visits the back and tells Sebastian that he can keep his bloody money. And, with a smile, Sherlock asks, “You wouldn’t mind if I had a look at the soles of your feet, would you?” Satisfied with Sebastian’s flustered face, Sherlock leaves.

III.

Bored.

Bored.

Bored.

Bored.

Bored.

Bored.

Bored.

(There is enough cocaine in the back of the hidden compartment in the left kitchen cupboard to keep him occupied for three days, no food or sleep necessary. He doesn’t. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t, but he doesn’t. He’s getting better? Four nicotine patches. Four. The days vanish in a lethargic haze. Mycroft keeps calling. Mycroft is texting. Mycroft. Bloody ---

BOOM.)

Gas leak.

Boring.

Mycroft wants help. He refuses. He tries the violin. It doesn’t relieve anything.

Boring.

Boring.

Boring.

Lestrade calls. Oh.

Not the gas line. A bomb. A letter. A phone. _Sherlock Holmes_. At the sound of the five pips, Sherlock’s heart races. He breathes and the air lifts him up. The game is on.

A hostage. That complicates matters, but Sherlock knows he can solve the puzzle just the same. The shoes. Just a pair of shoes. Why? He takes them to the lab and discovers where they’re owner had taken them. Their owner turns out to be Carl Powers. Carl Powers. Where it all began. Is that a coincidence, or does the bomber know? Sherlock files that away for later. Later that night, it is confirmed. Carl Powers was poisoned; botulism; slipped into his eczema cream. Case solved.

Phone call. Four pips. A car. Lestrade knows the location, owner Ian Monkford assumed dead. Murdered? Interview with the wife makes it seem unlikely. Interview the car rental agency eliminates the possibility altogether. Ian Monkford is in Colombia, alive and well. The blood found in the car had been frozen and was exactly one pint. It’s obvious. He didn’t need a hint from the bomber, although it was given just the same. (Sherlock truly isn’t the only one in the world to get bored.)

The next puzzle is too broad. The photo of the woman could be anyone. Sherlock sulks over it until he returns home to find Mrs Hudson tidying up. “Pity about that Connie Price woman. I really liked her show. Did you ever see it, Sherlock?” He hasn’t, but he does now.

A visit to the morgue solves it. At least, how she died (Sherlock is disappointed that the killer is beginning to repeat himself.) He contacts a man he’s worked with before and, while he’s checking up on Raul, Sherlock interviews the people around the late Andrew West. If he solves this case too quickly, he’ll have even less time to solve the next one.

It’s all too easy. Until the woman speaks. Sherlock knows he’s lost before the explosion cuts off the signal. He lost. But still, he did solve the puzzle.

He waits a tediously long time before the phone rings with an image of the Thames. It’s obvious. The painting is a fake, the Golem killed the guard, but he has to prove it all. Therein lies the difficulty. The curator knows nothing. The flatmate only has a phone message. It reveals nothing new. His network comes through with a location on the Golem. The killer slips away before Sherlock can confront him. Sherlock tracks the professor from the phone message instead. The Golem finds them both there. She dies. Sherlock nearly does. (He fakes it, and the Golem slinks away.) Frustrated, Sherlock stalks back to the museum. When the killer calls, Sherlock only realizes the reasoning nearly too late. But he does solve it. And he gets it right. No one dies. And he finally, _finally_ has the name confirmed. Moriarty.

That night, he circles back to Andrew West’s brother-in-law’s home. He takes the plans and pointedly does not return them to Mycroft.

IV.

The pool is empty when he enters, but he knows that Moriarty is there. He shows that he has the plans. “Isn’t this what you wanted?” he asks. “What you tried to distract me from?” It’s a long shot, but he knows the plans are of interest. There are lots of buyers for the plans. Sherlock doesn’t give a damn where they go, so long as Moriarty comes out to play. And he does, eventually. After a long and dramatic pause, a door opens.

“I gave you my number,” Moriarty says. “I thought you might call.” And it’s Jim. Jim from IT. Jim, Molly’s gay boyfriend. Sherlock is momentarily thrown.

Moriarty sidles closer, smile tattooed permanently on his face. “Are those for me?” he asks like a child, eyes on the plans grasped between Sherlock’s fingers. “Oh, darling, you shouldn’t have?” He approaches closer and plucks the USB from Sherlock’s fingers. (How could he have missed it? How could he not have noticed? How could he have been so stupid?) “Really, Sherlock. You shouldn’t have.” He tosses the plans in the pool. “I could’ve gotten those anywhere.”

(His voice, even his voice changes. He’s a man, but he’s more than one man. So much more than one man.) “Well, isn’t this nice? You. Me. You’re not even armed, are you? I’m not. I knew you wouldn’t be, so I left the cavalry at home. They’ve been so overworked lately. I thought it best to indulge them a bit, give them night off.” (Lies, Sherlock observes; there’s at least one sniper.)

“Aren’t you going to say hello?”

Sherlock doesn’t know what he’s going to say. (What are you? More than a man. So much more. He’s a --) “Consulting criminal.”

The grin that erupts on Moriarty’s face is like a child at Christmas. “Very good! The only one in the world, I’m told. Well, the only one like me. I’m special, you see. “

Sherlock is beginning to understand. “Please Jim, will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover’s nasty sister. Please Jim will you fix it for me to get a new life in Colombia.”

Moriarty is pleased. “Just so,” he says, and beams.

And Sherlock breathes. It all makes sense now. “Brilliant.”

“I’m not the only one in the world who gets bored. You get bored, Sherlock. You get bored just like I do. And I can fix that for you.” There’s a hand extended, the universal sign of a peace offering, a truce.

The case is solved, but there is another one proposed. But what is being offered?

“A promise.”

“For what?”

“For the edge, my dear. For an end . . . eventually.”

“You’re going to kill me. How trite.”

“Oh, no, dear. No. No. No. It disappoints me that you don’t understand.”

“How can I understand when you’re talking in circles – in riddles!”

“You’re the great detective, Sherlock Holmes. You can’t figure it out? I’ve told you nothing but the truth.”

(What has he said? Plans. Unnecessary. Called him sexy, liked to watch him dance, they were --) “Made for each other.”

“Yes? In what way?”

(Not sexual, too obvious; that was just a ruse. Not beneficial for the world; they’d only destroy it. But they do complement one another: criminal and detective; creator and destroyer; what Moriarty weaves, Sherlock unravels. It is the most satisfying game yet. And, given Moriarty’s mind, Sherlock can’t be the only one with that opinion.) “Boredom. We’d never be bored.”

“Very good!”

“You’re proposing a –"

“Oh, don’t say it. ‘Truce’ is such a . . . dirty word. I don’t like it. Think of it instead as, as a stalemate. This is where we walk away. Aren’t you curious, Sherlock? Aren’t you curious to see how far we can push one another? Imagine all the things we could do together. We began you know. With little Carl Powers. Nice choice of meeting place, by the way. Quite . . . touching. I like being acknowledged, especially by you. Not many people can understand brilliance, Sherlock. They think we’re – freaks. But they don’t know. They don’t know us like we know each other.”

 _You don’t know me_ , he wants to say, but that isn’t true. That isn’t true at all. Neither is _I’m nothing like you_ , because Sherlock is everything like Moriarty. He may never order a man killed or set off bombs all around London, but that’s just a technicality. Sherlock recognizes the restless energy in Moriarty’s limbs. He recognizes the listless expression in his eyes.

“People have died,” Sherlock says, trying to find the piece that makes them different.

Moriarty smiles, gently this time, and places a hand on Sherlock’s arm. “That’s what people do,” he says in a voice that is as soft as the old woman claimed it to be. “That’s what we all do, every day. We die a little bit, every day, every hour, every minute, we waste away. People die every day, wallowing in their pathetic, boring, insignificant lives. Can you imagine being one of them, Sherlock? Such tiny little brains. How do they get by?”

“By knowing that people like you are stopped.”

“And what? People like you can save them from me? Don’t pretend to be a hero, Sherlock. They are as scared of you as they are me; but they never see me, Sherlock. They’ve no idea who Moriarty is. But I’ve shown you. Remember that, when you go home tonight, to your cozy little 221B Baker Street, to kind old Mrs Hudson who’s made you tea and sandwiches. Remember that I’ve always told you the truth.”

“I didn’t come here to stop you,” Sherlock admits.

“I know you didn’t.”

“But you should be stopped.”

“Probably. But only if you stop me. And, frankly, we both know you don’t care what happens out there. You only care that you get a challenge, that your mind doesn’t rot away from boring everyday life. You know I'm right." Moriarty tilts his head, inviting a response.

Sherlock speaks solemnly, a sharp contrast to Moriarty’s grin.

V.  
To: Mycroft Holmes. From: Sherlock Holmes. Message: _Bruce-Partington plans recovered and destroyed. --SH_

To: Sherlock Holmes. From: [Blocked.] Message: _It was so nice to finally have had a proper chat. Until next time. --xx._

To: Sherlock Holmes. From: Mycroft Holmes. Message: _Once again, you've done your country a great service. -- Mycroft Holmes_


End file.
